


remember me (but, ah, forget my fate)

by ubertastic



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/F, Flashbacks, Non-Specific Route, Opera references, Sad Ending, Spoilers, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 07:30:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20327401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ubertastic/pseuds/ubertastic
Summary: Dorothea knows a tragedy when she sees one; as a singer, she starred in hundreds of them. Maybe she should have realized, then, where she and Petra were heading.





	remember me (but, ah, forget my fate)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Dido's Lament from _Dido and Aeneas_ by Henry Purcell.
> 
> The fact that this game makes you kill named characters is extremely rude, tbh. Not a huge fan. Have some angst about it anyway.

Dorothea knew this moment was coming, but five years of build-up does nothing to settle her heart.

She can still remember it like yesterday, the days after Edelgard declared war on the Church. Their classmates nervously milling about the monastery, unsure of whether they should be choosing sides.

Petra had confided in her that she did not like the direction that Edelgard’s path would take the emperor. But Petra was a political hostage in Fódlan, and her decisions had never been solely hers to make.

She had no choice but to choose Edelgard and the Empire. Dorothea’s conscience couldn’t let her do the same.

And every battle since, Dorothea’s gut has churned at the thought of spotting Petra across the field under a red banner, unable and unwilling to stand down.

When it finally happens, Dorothea’s not sure what is worse. The spike, deep in her abdomen, at seeing Petra’s determined expression—the knowledge that only one of them, if either, will be leaving this battlefield alive—or the way her heart jumps at finally laying eyes on Petra again.

* * *

_“I do not have understanding,” Petra says, examining one of Dorothea’s old scores. “Why are so many operas ending with sadness?”_

_“Oh, Petra. That’s,” Dorothea pauses, unsure of how to answer the question. “The world isn’t a very happy place. Opera just reflects that.”_

_“Are people not wanting to be happy when they watch an opera?”_

_Dorothea chuckles, though the usual mirth is absent. “It’s easier for people to deal with sad things in a show than in their real lives,” Dorothea explains. “It helps us cope, in a way.”_

* * *

"I was making many prayers to all the spirits of Brigid that we would not be encountering each other like this."

Dorothea smiles at the words despite herself. Petra's likely quite frustrated that she has not made much progress in mastering Fódlan’s language, but Dorothea finds some comfort in the familiarity of it.

Five years, and maybe Petra is still the girl she knew from the monastery.

"I'll admit," Dorothea shoots back, over the din of the fighting around them, "I'm not very devout, but I was praying as well."

"I am not wanting to kill you," Petra says, the words raw. Honest. Her knuckles are white around the hilt of her sword.

"I don't want to kill you either. If it were up to me, this reunion would have gone much differently."

Petra dodges a stray arrow, the tassels on her skirt fluttering as she flips out of the way, and Dorothea bites back the urge to curse whichever of her allies shot it. "What were you thinking?"

"Oh, you know. Roses, candles, maybe some wine," Dorothea answers, shamelessly. She stands at the ready, magic zapping between her fingertips in case someone tries to interrupt them. "Just you and me, and no war to speak of."

"I would be liking that greatly," Petra says, grinning. It's a lovely sight. "I am wishing that was what happened."

Another arrow lands in between them, this one fired from Petra's side. Dorothea’s thunder spell almost fires instinctively, her strangely clear mind the only thing that stops her muscle memory.

This can't go on much longer.

* * *

_“Are people not being reminded of sad things in their own lives?” Petra muses. “Ferdinand’s father was trying to take me to an opera when I was living in the capital. I was thinking only of my family and my people as I was watching the death on stage.”_

_“Some people certainly react that way,” Dorothea agrees. “But mostly, we compartmentalize. We detach. Those characters are not us, so we can feel sad for them without feeling sad for ourselves. _

_“Or sometimes it can help us vent,” she continues. “We let ourselves feel emotions for the characters we don’t let ourselves feel personally. Either way it’s cathartic.”_

_“‘Cathartic’?”_

_“It lets us release the emotions we have built up inside.”_

_Petra nods. “I have understanding. Thank you, Dorothea.”_

* * *

Dorothea often wondered—late at night, too consumed by the horrors of the war to let sleep take her—if it would be more merciful to kill Petra herself. If that would be something Petra would even want.

Those thoughts seem pointless as she holds Petra in her arms, the light fading from her eyes.

“I am filled with much gladness that I got to see you again,” Petra says, voice quiet. Strained.

“Don’t talk, dear. Save your energy,” Dorothea tells her, stroking the hair out of her face. “We can find you a healer. Get you patched right up.”

Petra takes her hand, holds it to her chest. “Do not be worrying about me. There is still fighting.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Dorothea says. Her vision blurs—maybe the heat of battle is finally getting to her, or the stress.

“No.” Petra is firm, dropping the hand in hers to cup Dorothea’s cheek. It’s much too cold. “Please do not be crying for me. I… made my choice.”

No one will write an opera about them, even as starcrossed as they are. Librettists love a good tragedy, but these names—_their names_—will be forgotten, mere casualties of war.

Dorothea dips her head and presses a kiss to Petra’s lips, a first and last. She should have done it sooner, done it more.

It doesn’t matter now.

* * *

_“Don’t get me wrong, we do have happy operas here as well,” Dorothea adds, “but they tend to be comedies.”_

_“Comedies? Ah yes, they are to be making us laugh,” Petra says, nodding. “We have stories like that in Brigid. And many tragedies also, but they are tales for teaching important lessons to our children. When we are making new stories, they are happy because we are wanting our lives to be filled with happiness.”_

_“That’s a lovely sentiment, though utterly foreign in Fódlan, if I’m being honest.” Dorothea sighs. “A happy opera that’s not a comedy… what a delightful thought. Have you ever considered writing a libretto, Petra?”_

_“Me? I do not think I am having the skill.”_

_“Oh, please. I’ve seen your essays for class,” Dorothea shoots back, giggling. “You’re an excellent writer.”_

_Petra shakes her head, a dusting of pink on her cheeks. “I do not think I am having the skill for coming up with stories.”_

_“Write one about us then! A daring princess from Brigid and the beautiful commoner she befriends while away from her country. I would star, of course, and we’d have to find someone as lovely as you to play against me._

_“The show would sell out in seconds,” Dorothea finishes, giggling into her hand at the thought._

_“Maybe I will be trying then,” Petra says, red as Dorothea’s ever seen her, “if you will be helping me. I still have much learning to do about opera.”_

_Dorothea places her hand over Petra’s, reveling in the heat radiating off the other girl, and sends her a wink. “I’ll teach you everything you need to know.”_

**Author's Note:**

> forgive me for this


End file.
